


A Name That Fits

by theharellan



Series: I Have Found a Home (Ian x Solas) [8]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, NB!Solavellan, Other, Solavellan, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-10 01:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20126866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theharellan/pseuds/theharellan
Summary: While Dreaming in the Hissing Wastes, Solas finds himself confronted with a spirit sickened with fear. In his efforts to heal it, he is forced to confront uncomfortable feelings about his own identity, and seek comfort in another's arms.





	A Name That Fits

Awake, the earth is sand beneath their feet, and blows about desert wastes that once knew the strength of roots. Asleep, the Fade remembers green. The trees grow tall and tight together, a veritable labyrinth which obscures the moons overhead. He brushes over thick roots, flashes of memories which play as he walks forward: a doe-eyed fawn lies still in a thicket as harm passes by, dappled sunlight cloaks it from unobservant eyes; fright quickens a young girl’s heart as she wanders, lost in twilight, too frightened to scream. Each memory rings with the same essence, remembered by the same spirit, grown in a grove whose trunks come together to prevent his passing.

“I would not see this place disturbed,” he says to empty air, though whosoever guards the grove cannot hide the energy that gathers to listen. A single moon realigns itself overhead. “Let me pass, or I shall have no choice but to force my way through.”

“That voice…” The presence hums with uncertain recognition, and through moonbeams he begins to see its shape. Its form is riddled with arrows, its wounds weep silver. Long and serpentine, it floats like a ribbon from the forests’ highest bows. A dozen amber eyes, luminous and leporine, open one by one to fix upon him. They waver, flitting back and forth across his face, before half fall shut as it shudders a sigh. “I do not know you,” it says, a wave of disappointment washes over him.

“Nor I, you,” he answers, “though it is simple enough to remedy.” Solas feels terror around him, a helpless fear that one can only run from, yet the person before him does not thrive in fear. There is something else to them, something that eludes him. The spirit drifts in a dead breeze, form jerking from side-to-side, without direction. “My name is Solas.”

“Solas. Solas…” A name it speaks once, then again, and again– softer each time. “No,” it decides, “I know little of pride.” Memories fall, dust illuminated by moonlight. His mouth tastes dirt, the wounded pride of someone forced to their knees in subjugation.

Pity moves him, despite the trepidation in his heart. Bare heels press hard into the ground, steeling himself for its sake as much as his own, to allow his apprehension to define him would only worsen its situation. “Those arrows–” he nods to them. “Do they hurt?”

“Terribly.” Its eyes clench shut in pain. “I cannot run, cannot–” Only an impression of its meaning is left in the dreamscape, but he feels the sound curl on his tongue.

“Hope.”

It rattles as it inhales, within its chest a flame the size of a candle’s lights up. “You _do_ know me.”

“Few things sustain a cause as hope does,” he says. “Come to me– I will do what I can to help.”

For a moment, Hope hesitates. Its form is harder against the moonlight, now, edges defined by its name spoken aloud. Perhaps that is what spurs it towards him, a dare to dream that he is here to help.

It curls itself along a low-hanging branch, arrow-ridden hide within his grasp. Hope’s head hangs low, its many eyes falling shut as it awaits his aid. The shafts of the arrow are black as the Void, several snapped unevenly in two, with their heads left to fester in the wound. Were this not the Fade, changing its fate would be beyond his abilities, but dreaming, his will has weight. His fist curls around the first arrow, and a memory steals into his heart–

She had followed Fairel to the Surface, as they all had. He is her blood, her Paragon, but the sky opens up above her, and a scream rips from her throat. She wonders what will kill her– the fall, or the landing?

Her terror is raw in his throat even after he has tossed the arrow to the forest floor. Hope sighs, sounding pleased. “She didn’t fall,” it says, then falters, “I do not know what became of her.”

“Against all odds, the dwarves have thrived on the surface,” he replies, thinking of Thora with daylight caught in her dark hair, “perhaps her descendants grew to love the sun.” The thought is sufficient to seal the weeping wound, the blood coagulates into hard, silver lumps.

Another arrow, another memory. He sees through the eyes of a varghest, its stomach dragging along the sand as it flees its pursuers. Something pierces its hide, pain floods its vision as its cry echoes across the sands, but it does not falter. It is blind in its retreat, the only purpose he gleans before he drops the arrow solidifies in a single, simple thought: _away_.

“It died, didn’t it?” Hope whimpers.

“Most likely, yes.” It would take a more talented liar than him to say otherwise. He excels in half-truths, and there is no ending to that tale that does not taste bittersweet. “It was leading the hunters away from its den.”

“It knew its young would be safe.”

“Yes.”

His answer placates it. Hope shudders a sigh of relief, and the wound begins to heal in the absence of despair.

The next arrow he sets his eyes upon is lodged deep within Hope’s side. Time has little bearing, here. The memory which pierces it may have festered over the course of a millennium, or an afternoon. An ill feeling steals over him as he examines it, eyeing where it entered. The spirit’s body is made of air and dreams, but where the arrowhead entered solid flesh grows, ridden with pewter scar tissue. “Go on,” Hope urges. “I feel… better.”

He doubts its standards for what constitutes as ‘better’ is high, but squashes the thought before Hope can sense his concern. “This wound is deep,” he warns, “the arrowhead is broad. This memory–”

“Yes,” it says, sounding impatient, now. For that, he can hardly fault it. “I understand!”

He breathes in. The lifetimes of fear which permeate this place filters through his lungs, released as calm. He grasps the arrow, and at first nothing comes to him, a silent, gaping void where an echo should be. Terror mounts. He feels it in his throat, swelling, begging for release, but he keeps his lips sealed shut. Wood splinters in his ear and the shaft snaps in two, suddenly brittle between his hands. The wound bleeds anew, silver droplets drip to the forest floor, the scent of metal in the air thrusts him into the memory.

A heartbeat pounds in his ears, the swift tempo of feet trying to outrun death itself. Acid aches in his veins, the world around him drawn into sharp focus, every groove in every tree, every shadow. He sees malice in their branches. They tug at him, try to drag him to an early grave. Death hounds him, snapping at his heels, howling things meant to be forgotten.

Through the blighted, cursed woods he sees carved stone. Hope springs into his eyes, wet tears that stain cheeks bloodied with the image of a drawn bow. He throws himself to bruised knees beneath the shadow of the stone wolf, a fervent prayer upon his lips. Something heard in the darkest corners of his god’s temple.

_In this place, you are free._

An arrow strikes his shoulder, tip coated with venom.

_In trusting us, you will never be bound again._

He sinks to the forest floor with Fen’Harel’s name upon his lips.

The memory fractures, and leaves him empty. He stands with the arrow’s fletching still in hand, wondering for an instant if he had pulled it from his own flesh before remembering where he stands. The dreamer is but one in thousands who died in pursuit of freedom. Once, he could bring them comfort in their passing with promises of a better future. Now, he walks upon the ashes of their world, asking himself if it can truly all be for naught, and if moving on would cement his legacy as traitor to the People.

He snaps from his trance, the sound of ragged gasps draws him from himself. Hope’s breath is shallow, translucent skin pulling tight over thin ribs. “I do know you,” it says, in a voice that pulls the warmth from his skin.

Its wound gushes black blood that falls to the forest floor in thick drops. “You’re bleeding…” The fletching falls from his hand and he moves to stop the blood, will concentrating in the palm of his hand, but Hope twists itself away.

“Fen’Harel,” it rasps. “You’re Fen’Harel. You came– you–”

“Solas,” he insists, but the name is carried away by the wind. “My name is Solas.” It sounds strange to his ears. Pride. What right has he to that name? Fen’Harel had instilled more pride in the hearts of the People than Solas ever has.

Hope rounds on him, turning to set one eye square upon him. A dozen more open and turn to him, yellow clouded with a milky fog. “Fen’Harel. He waited so long for you. In grass, then barren dirt, then sand. His hope outlived these woods.” He beholds his reflections in its gaze, outfitted in golden armour, auburn hair pulled back in a bun, a wolf’s pet draped across his shoulder. In his eyes he sees wars waged and won, a future. Someone to believe in, or something?

But he has a new name.

His hand flies back, his fingers thread through thick hair that he had cast aside once woken. No, no. He is older now, crow’s feet line the Wolf’s eyes, he traded armour for soft spun wool– but the Dread Wolf’s mantle grinds his Pride to dust.

“You came,” it weeps, between despair and laughter. “At last, you came.”

“I’m here.” The admission tastes foul, but he speaks it softly. “Now let me help you.”

“You already have.” Yet its wound still weeps, and against the moonlight Hope seems frail. He reaches up, stemming the tide of blood with his hand. Black gore wells between his fingers, now clad in cold metal. Hands dressed to tear down empires, not nurture new worlds. Hope does not feel his doubt, it mutters a relic’s name as though it were a sweet hymn. “Fen’Harel… When the Wolf failed we lost the People to war, Fen’Harel…”

It dissipates in a moonbeam, and the sky clouds over.

He stands alone in the clearing with black, blood-stained hands, wondering. Wondering if Fen’Harel could have helped it, or Solas have saved it, wishing to be more than the sum of his parts.

* * *

Through the heavy tarp he can see the daylight outside. The shadows of branches dance across the surface, moving in the breeze. He doesn’t move, doesn’t stir, not even to turn over and block out the desert sunlight. He watches, hoping it might kindle something in his hollow heart. He does not know how long ago he woke, only that he is not eager to find dreams again. The space around him draws in and out of focus, as though it recedes further into the distance. With one hand he reaches out for something– anything. His fingers brush the jawbone necklace draped across his pack, he pulls it into his palm and curls his hand around it, teeth against his skin.

None of this is new. Since long before he had woken to this world, he had known what it was to be, and to not be. To unravel, even if his body is whole, apart from and within himself, now with the added weight of the Veil. It clogs his lungs, every breath a little too short for his liking. He cannot will himself whole, nor spend weeks adrift in the Deepest Fade ‘til he feels new again.

His eyes close. He feels the ache in his muscles, his shoulders where he had slept on them strange, his calves from a day’s journey, the back of his head against a meager pillow. Stars play across the backs of his lids, and he thinks of the name they will call when they look for him.

He slips through to dreams. They are as formless as he, and dissolve in sunlight. His eyes open as the flap to his tent falls shut behind Ian, who freezes when he sees his eyes are open. “I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asks. “The requisitions officer said the Inquisitor had left already. I didn’t– I didn’t– I… I thought you’d be off, already. I’m glad I was wrong.” The last sentiment is expressed with a smile.

Pushing himself up, his spine curls forward, urging himself to show some signs of life for Ian’s sake. “I did not expect your return today, either.” His own voice sounds distant, as though spoken from another’s lips, an unseen figure apart from them both.

“Did you sleep in for the memories?” Ian’s question sounds more like a wish than a curiosity. He settles on his knees, hand grazing over where his blankets cover his calves. When they settle on his thigh, the weight is welcome, though it does not make the answer easier to say.

“No.”

“Oh.” It is a heavy sound, laden with a realisation he has been hoping Ian wouldn’t make, and yet praying he will. “Are you alright?”

To say ‘yes’ would be a transparent lie. Ian saw him in the wake of Wisdom’s capture, and witnessed his anguish at its death. What effort he has put into his composure, Ian has seen past. And so, he looks away, his answer pooling in his mind, drowning out all other thoughts. _No_. The word echoes, again and again, burying him. It persists, louder and louder, it–

Ian’s hand lies across his, leather folded over his bare skin. “Solas… breathe.”

The sound of his own name hits Solas like a blow to the gut, dislodging the knot tied in his throat. He inhales through his nose, drawing cold air down into his lungs. The hand over his draws him forward. He does not resist, leaning into the crook of Ian’s shoulder, where the world finds its gentleness. A soft place to land, away from himself. He can still feel his thoughts encroaching upon the momentary peace, reminding him of death approaching. How sweet it would be to die in these arms, until it settles over him– the _truth_ of the matter.

He will die half-remembered, as Solas or Fen’Harel, never both. Never whole. His true nature– whatever it is– buried beneath the weight of the rest.

Ian moves beneath him, he hears the sound of leather pulling on leather, and a hand lifts to hold him close. Scars riddle Ian’s skin, he can feel them against his cheek, yet not one has made him cruel. Despite it all, his essence survives.

It is not his place to write poetry into Ian’s history, but still it inspires him to think the same can be true of him. A hope tempered by his shame, a voice that curses him for knowing better than to use Ian’s life as a well for his own comfort, and drawing from it all the same. Affection pushes past the dead cloud that chokes him, and he turns his head just far enough to kiss Ian’s palm. Ian hums in his ear. He can hear the smile in it, perhaps a milder smile than he had grown used to kindling, but it is a sweet picture all the same.

“Can I do anything?”

He’s silent for a moment. His ear pressed against Ian, he can hear his heartbeat, and he counts its tempo. One, two, three… soon the numbers in his head outpace his melancholy, and his thoughts realign themselves. At least, for the moment. “Say my name,” he says, “please.” It occurs to him that it must sound like a strange request, but he trusts Ian not to mock him for it.

“Solas.”

He cannot feel the affection in Ian’s voice with the same certainty as he feels his heart swell with gratitude, the Veil swallows the magic that once siphoned it into the world. Yet he finds he does not need to. If love had a voice, it would be Ian’s. His eyes shut. In the black he sees the impression of Hope’s amber eyes flash, and a shiver runs down his spine. His name–

“_Solas_.” 

The hand on his cheek draws its thumb across his skin. His skin, his cheek, his heart, _his_ love.

“Ian.” Speaking his name, Solas sounds more like himself. He’d heard no other speak it with such tenderness. “Thank you.”


End file.
